Pulp in Five Songs

The Wit, The Bite, The Scene

No one needs convincing Pulp mattered. The fact you’re here proves it.

This isn’t another “best of” list. You’ve seen those. You’ve argued over them in pubs. But this? This is something sharper. Five tracks that say more than a hundred interviews or deluxe box sets ever could. No filler. No nostalgia-padding. Just the nerve, the wit, and that slow-building venom Pulp made look effortless.

Pulp didn’t do singles. Pulp didn’t do albums. Pulp did something else. These songs? Consider them snapshots of the sneer and smirk that made the group untouchable. This is a five-track starter guide.

The Hit – Common People

This is where it all changed. No fanfare, no easing in. Just the song that turned the entire Britpop party into a post-mortem. The one that dragged the whole thing into the light, stripped it bare, and forced it to explain itself.

It was bigger than Pulp. Jarvis sneering about “students drinking supermarket cider” became a generation’s unofficial motto. The gigs filled with scruffy trainers and Primark blazers. Every verse hit like a dare.

Glastonbury ’95. Everything clicked. Jarvis, the crowd, the scene.

Everyone sang it. But it never really belonged to the crowd. Common People was too sharp, too angry, too bloody arch to hold close. Britpop sold you the party. Pulp reminded you the world was burning outside.

The Banger – Babies

The rawness is immediate. No other track from that early 90s stew sounded quite this strange and perfect. The kind of thing you replayed just to confirm it was as weird as it felt. And that story? Voyeurism, jealousy, sex with your girlfriend’s sister – none of it played for shock. Just told like a confession Jarvis had been waiting years to unload.

It didn’t need polish. It needed nerve.

By ’92, Babies already felt like the Pulp crowd’s dirty little secret. The kind of song that made people lean in closer at gigs, waiting for their line.

The Album Track – I Spy

Not a single. Not a chant. Just track four on Different Class, waiting like a trap. Gothic strings. Building tension. Jarvis, vengeful and theatrical, spitting accusations like he’s narrating a séance. It’s a Bond theme set in Sheffield, reeking of resentment and swagger.

Everything about it feels personal and planned. But not for you. For someone who should’ve known better.

In an album full of accessible brilliance, I Spy sits there. Watching. Daring you to skip it. You don’t.

The Live Favourite – Sorted for E’s & Wizz

A song the tabloids tried to kill before it got started. A title they couldn’t print without panicking. But live? This one always worked. Finsbury Park ’98. The crowd fully cooked on their own nostalgia, but still alive to the sting in every word.

This wasn’t a song. This was the night. The one you kept chasing. Jarvis delivering it like he knew exactly who in the crowd wasn’t going to make it home.

“Is this the way they say the future’s meant to feel?” shouted back by thousands who already knew the answer.

The Deep Cut – Razzmatazz

Too clever. Too cruel. Too early. That’s why it stayed a deep cut. Released in ’93, just before the scene noticed Pulp properly. No album. No fanfare. Just a standalone single with too much bile for the charts.

It’s a breakup song soaked in malice. Not heartbreak. Post-heartbreak. The phase where all the best insults live.

That line (you started getting fatter and noticed your hair was falling out) still goes down like broken glass.

No anthem. No reconciliation. Just Jarvis, grinning as he burns the whole thing down.

Fade Out

Five tracks. One reason: Pulp mattered. You know the songs. Play them again. Pulp will do the rest.